


The Right Sort of Gentleman

by InfiniteJediLove



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: 2020 is a shit year, He also falls in love with Qui-Gon, M/M, Obi-Wan realizes he’s gay, Sad with a Happy Ending, because we need fluff in our life, befriends a flapper, lets go back to 1922., not so modern Quiobi au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25054138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteJediLove/pseuds/InfiniteJediLove
Summary: The war was over and now was a time of gaiety, positively frightful in its appetite for more. More wealth, more furs and pearls, more parties. Women were cropping their girlhood curls and showing their stockings for all to see and men went about with small superior smiles in smoke-filled rooms. There seemed in all the bright wide world no better way to live ones life then to forget about the life they were living and float about such rooms with the ease of those who know they’ve taken the day in hand and plan to wring some sort of joy from it, come what may.A short story set in 1922. Depressed newspaper editor Ormond Kenrrick realizes some things about himself and then falls in love.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	The Right Sort of Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> Heh, so I don’t know what to say, except that I was reading a lot of Dorothy Parker short stories the other day and then…this happened. 
> 
> Those of you who know me, know that this is NOT my normal writing style. Most writers of the 1920’s had a certain literary style of writing, a removed narrator perspective that keeps some of the formal writing of the Edwardian period, but has the slang and casual tone of a gossipy letter to a friend. I wanted to challenge myself by seeing how well I could emulate that style when writing. I’m not sure if I pulled it off but it was fun! So here it is, the 1920’s quiobi fic you didn’t ask for but you got anyway. Enjoy it!

The newspaper business was really such an awful place. Why, just the other day the papers had published a tragic account of some woman falling into a lake from a bedroom window, and than a scuffle over a pistol on third avenue, and of course a horrid argument between the city and the new railroad line and it really didn’t take much for most to wash their hands of the whole nasty business.

The war was over and now was a time of gaiety, positively frightful in its appetite for more. More wealth, more furs and pearls, more parties. Women were chopping off girlhood curls and showing their stockings for all to see and men went about with small superior smiles in smoke-filled rooms. There seemed in all the bright wide world no better way to live ones life then to forget about the life they were living and float about such rooms with the ease of those who know they’ve taken the day in hand and plan to wring some sort of joy from it, come what may.

So, clearly newspapers weren’t much bothered with, except for lurid accounts of who left who over someone else. By the time Ormond Kenrrick inherited the small paper, started lovingly by his grandfather, it was no more than a cheap gossip piece, crabbing on about scandal after scandal in the hopes that one might spare a penny to read the shocking headlines. Ormond didn’t particularly enjoy business, anymore than he enjoyed drinking. He didn’t, to be fairly honest, enjoy much of anything. But he was determined to turn the ruin of his father’s business into a successful newspaper once again. It was, after all, the honorable thing to do. The elder generation who had only horror in their hearts for the wild frivolity of youth could muster a drop of regard for Ormond there, if only because he was intelligent and proper and seemed to be going about things the right way.

Still, newspapers were frightful and Ormond found himself often hurrying to meet deadlines, rewriting badly worded articles and remonstrating those who had busied themselves with cheap accounts of illegal speak-easy breakups often when half-seas over themselves. A resentful air soon entered the dingy offices that housed the _Times_ , at having a young ‘inteelectu-al!’, as more than one chap sneered, tell them what to do when the very man’s father hadn’t cared a whit what went in the paper as long as it was went out on Sunday. So then came the firings and Ormond, who didn’t swear, drink, or fight, was far more imposing on the matter and after a year or two, the ones left had gained a grudging respect for Ormond and half-heartedly did a better job so that those who bought the paper did, in fact, read beyond the first headline.

It was quite the accomplishment for a man of twenty-five, but no one was congratulating Ormond, least of all himself. Every line written was considered and re-considered and the whole affair was exhausting. How much simpler it would have been if Ormond could have taken off to the south of France to write a novel, or ran away to some desolate part of England where he didn’t have to bother with all this mess. But life went hurrying on in the city and Ormond found himself hurrying with it, always with an eye out for another story.

The thing was, stories were about people and Ormond didn’t like people. Of course, he liked humanity and good causes but when all was said and done he didn’t quite fit anywhere. The old still surveyed him with crushing resentment, speaking loudly of his failings in the hopes that he would endeavor to become even more respectable, but Ormond cared nothing for their airs or their obsession with wealth any more than the decadent parties thrown by his peers.

However, it always seemed, no matter where he went that he would be noticed, if perhaps for the fact he always arrived and left alone and didn’t wish to speak to anyone. Women began to materialize at his table in restaurants, or at events, gazing beseechingly at him and giving small rippling laughs at the most inane things. It puzzled Ormond to no end. His view of the world was a gray endless murky sort of painting, the kind that always looks wet, and so he did not think himself attractive. It was true that he was slim and less broad shouldered than the handsome strapping men with women always on their arms, but he had a charming melancholy about him and a stillness to large greenish eyes that gave the impression he was listening at a deeper level. This quality drew women who he had no knowledge of how to converse with, for they were as quiet as he was or else hopelessly flirtatious so as to be almost frightening.

No matter the room or the party, Ormond could not prevent his eyes from being drawn to the trim figures of his fellow men and finding himself lacking in every way. He noted the casually informal suit collar of one man, the patterned cravat of another, the hair slicked back and faces full of life.

Ormond couldn’t understand this ceaseless drive to live. It seemed overtly sentimental, separate from him or the stories he wanted to tell; the tales of beggars on the streets or the soldiers who returned with darkness in their eyes. It seemed everything always went sideways and news never focused on what it should and Ormond was tired of trying. The bright lights of parties irritated him more than ever as did the clouds of smoke and the hushed giggles in a basement where illegal liquor was served. It all seemed beyond him and perhaps that was why he found himself repulsed at the women who rushed toward him, beads and bracelets clacking, fringed dresses catching at the wind, their mouths and nails bright red. Men seemed subtler, the dark reserved colors of their suits offering a resting point for his eyes.

They really were quite something, the other men. They moved with ease and confidence Ormond rarely stumbled into and looked like Greek statues come to life. The moment they opened their mouth though all camaraderie vanished, for the views of men were narrow and often returned time and time again to women, condemning them and praising them with the same exact words and tone one would us to address a mildly disobedient dog. It made Ormond kinder to the women that he met, for he much preferred their prattle over the supremacy men waved about as if they were invincible. Still, talk was tiring and he would often make his excuses to the host and leave early. It was just such a case as when he met Caroline, who greeted him when he made to stand with a hard look and a firm handshake.

She had announced quite scornfully that she simply couldn’t endure his newspaper years ago and it might now perhaps be fit to do _something_ with if he would just write what needed to be written.

“Perhaps you’ll explain what that is?” Ormond had demanded, perturbed and intrigued when she shrugged, tossing her straight bobbed hair so that it fell like dark wings around her face.

“Why whatever the hell you want it to be,” she responded carelessly, lighting a cigarette.

This sparked something in Ormond, if only because he didn’t know what the hell he wanted was. He turned away, eyes automatically trailing that of a man wandering the room. He appeared foolishly handsome, the kind of man that women swooned over but nauseated Ormond with the abundance of charm so obviously spilled about. It was always this sort of man who tried to gain confidence with Ormond by insulting the women hanging off of him without ever any idea of how vulgar he was.

He turned back to his untouched drink and saw Caroline watching him. She had the smile of women in secondary roles in plays, small and mysterious and all together too knowing,

“Well, Mr. Kenrrick,” she said, dragging on her cigarette and sighing smoke into the air, “what an interesting life you must lead. Really, I’ve heard that you are quite the respectable man.”

* * *

That should have been the end of it, of him, of everything. But Caroline was as she put it ‘a bloody good sport’ and really what more could be said. He didn’t even know what she had meant at the party but he was relieved that he did not have to court her to win her friendship, such as it was. She’d joined the _Times_ staff soon enough and was a far better writer than most, a fact that irked the men already employed.

“She’s a damn little fool, one of those silly left over suffragettes,” an old writer sneered when she sailed out of the office with another remarkable story and Ormond told him to shut up with a sternness that startled them both.

The thing was, he rather liked Caroline for she was as bitter as he was lonely and she held her friendships close to her heart. He knew, in the vague way that he had of understanding people, that her scorn came from some deep wound that had gone on hurting her long after everyone else walked around blithely without a thought in their heads.

It was Caroline who he traveled to parties with, if only because other women left him alone. Caroline who could almost make him smile with her cutting remarks about society. Caroline who once, in his office, stopped in the middle of a uproarious little tale about a bootlegger having to smuggle whisky in a taxi to tell him, “you’re the only decent man around, you know.”

The compliment confused Ormond who never his whole life had known what to do with sudden kindness and so in his quiet, Caroline continued, her mouth taking on that knowing curve, “You ought,” she stated suddenly, “to find yourself a gentleman. The right sort of gentleman.”

* * *

Gentlemen, it turned out were extremely difficult for a man to find. Ormond could barely understand the whole matter and really would rather just continue as if Caroline had not spoken about it at all but Caroline never once said anything without meaning it wholeheartedly. She tossed her newest stories on his desk with a conspiratorial look now and a lengthy exasperated sigh.

“Really, I could smuggle one up here to your cozy nest,” she remarked, drawing on her cigarette zealously and waving a red-nailed hand around the horrid little office, “I wouldn’t mind one bit and this place could do with a shine to it, couldn’t it now?”

“Caroline,” Ormond protested quietly, glancing always at the closed door. His hands trembled at her insinuation even though some part of his mind was still stunned by her very suggestion. But never was she more full of cheer in the idea, slipping a flask from her purse and offering it, only to smile bitterly when Ormond refused.

“For God’s sake, you’ll die with a lonely life, that’s what,” she declared, sharp eyes assessing him, “You’ll at least be discreet and it will do you good. I don’t know how you stand it, staring at your typewriter all day without going absolutely insane.”

“You manage it,” he replied and she barked a laugh, painted mouth still curved with calculating intent.

“I’m far too clever to be working here though, aren’t I? Come now, tell me what sort of man you like.”

Ormond shook his head, afraid suddenly that the sound of his own voice would jar things further apart. He was too muddled about the matter and refused to play Caroline’s game. For it had to be a game, hadn’t it? The sort of thing that people say but do not intend to ever have happen. But he couldn’t fool Caroline, he couldn’t even fool himself anymore when he looked in the mirror that night, sleepless as the couple in the downstairs apartment, quarreling loudly over money and sheets not being put out on the right wash day and all the other things that Ormond really couldn’t fathom how one could even bother to care about.

It was perhaps unfair of him, he reflected, to consider marriage as no more than a burden. Surely, there were happy people in the world, surely Caroline was wrong about him anyway and he would likely be settled in domestic bliss by the age of thirty.

* * *

The matter of the gentleman came about all of a sudden. Caroline had fallen into deep fascination with a story far on the other side of the city so that she was not present to offer him shrewd little smiles when Ed announced an interesting account. A distant friend of a distant cousin or some other unclear relation was now in the city and did Ormond think a story on the man was a good idea?

“Lived in Alaska for fifteen years, panned gold, fur-trapping, Gee I don’t know what all he did. He’s traveled some, lived out west awhile,” the man scratched his head, wiping ink-stained fingers on a dirty handkerchief before setting another page in his typewriter, “he’s been just about everywhere, I guess.”

Ormond frowned, wishing he could have time to think but Ed was staring at him with the sort of mulish expectation most writers gave him in the newsroom. They always did what he said but Ormond had the feeling that he was often the topic to razz over a drink. He couldn’t really blame them. He was younger and quieter than them, too bookish, too high-minded. They professed not to have any feeling that Caroline was there but Ormond knew the whole matter was a sore point.

Perhaps it would be easier if he were to be more agreeable, Ormond considered miserably. No one much liked someone who was sunk, who couldn’t just get through the damn day with some dignity at least. He told Ed yes and went back to his office and spent a lot of time staring at the wall, trying hard to work out if there wasn’t some sort of way he could just forget ever having realized that he was different in all the ways that he was.

* * *

The relative or acquaintance of Ed’s arrived the next morning and Ormond stopped abruptly in the door, for standing there among the wobbly oak desks and rusted typewriters was a man unlike any he had ever seen. For some reason, Ormond had had the passing thought that the man would be like the men who worked in shipyards and on rail lines, all muscle and no time to speak, the sort who knew how the world worked and were justifiably suspicious of any who questioned them. But this man was speaking quietly to Ed in cultured tones, his appearance absolutely bizarre.

Not since photographs of his grandfather had Ormond seen a man with long hair. It fell silvery and shockingly past the shoulders of a worn overcoat that was clearly a relic of the last century. The beard the man kept was different than the finely styled mustaches a few men Ormond’s age foolishly cultivated, he seemed altogether aristocratic and medieval. He was also remarkably tall so that the men in the Times newsroom looked somewhat silly near him, their neckties cheap and tied too tightly compared to the open collar of the man, their faces like those of boys suddenly grown old without knowing a day of work in between.

The man startled at Ormond’s appearance, blue eyes lingering while the writers in the room stared in shocked awe at the man. Why, they could not have been more stunned were a bear to have ambled indoors. The situation was absurd, and yet, Ormond too was dazed as he took in that long look from the other man.

He felt warm, overwhelmed. Really, he couldn’t honestly remember at that moment what the man was doing there. He had never been more grateful that Ed still retained some basic quality of manners, introducing the man as Quincy Jehron, but calling him Quin with a familiarity that grated on Ormond’s tight nerves.

Quin offered a smile, quite unlike that of the men that Ormond had seen at parties or in business chambers. There was something of the removed serenity of the frontier in the man’s expression, something rough and wild mixed with a grace that spoke of Old World elegance. Had they exchanged words, Ormond did not know, only that they were soon alone in his office and the man Quin was watching him calmly with the same knowing look as Caroline but far more tenderly, that kindred glance pressing up close against Ormond’s heart.

With a shaky breath, Ormond dropped into his chair, staring at Quin who sat on the other side of his desk, too tall for the old chair. The strange, beautiful man looked back at him with the openness of someone who had lived in empty places for a long time. And suddenly, it wasn’t hard at all for their hands to touch, for large callused fingers to daringly brush against his own among the discarded papers on the desk. Happiness was quite a little word for all that Ormond felt as he looked into eyes as dark and blue as a frozen river. Truly, he had never thought he would meet such a person, the exact right sort of gentleman.

**Author's Note:**

> So is this version of 1922 better than 2020 so far? I hope everyone has been safe and well these last few months. Take care of yourself. Also don't forget the Jinnobi Challenge that is happening in October! you can check out the info here: https://infinitejedilove.tumblr.com/search/2020%20jinnobi%20challenge%20
> 
> I know it is particularity weird that Qui-Gon would still have his long hair in the roaring twenties but I couldn’t bring myself to cut it so I just made him an explorer type. It could work, right?
> 
> Some slang of the era I used. I didn’t utilize all the amazing slang from the time (seriously look up 1920’s slang, it’s fascinating) because I didn’t think Obi-Wan would use it but here are the ones I did mention. 
> 
> Crabbing: complaining  
> Speak-easy: a illegal bar (America had prohibited selling alcohol for most of the 1920’s)  
> Half-seas over: really drunk  
> Bootlegger: a person who smuggled alcohol during the prohibition era.  
> Razz: make fun of  
> Any feeling about it: not to care about the matter  
> Sunk: depressed


End file.
